


What a Way to Die

by TheTriggeredHappy



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Grimmons, Light Angst, M/M, Season 8 Spoilers, gay space marines, they're probably married let's be real
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-01-08
Packaged: 2018-05-12 14:54:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5670001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTriggeredHappy/pseuds/TheTriggeredHappy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Set during Season 8 finale)<br/>Grif falls and Simmons doesn't know what to do now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What a Way to Die

**Author's Note:**

> [Rewatching all of Season 8 was a blast, but when I got to the scene where Grif falls, I feel like there was much more opportunity to showcase character relationships. So I made do. Here.]

 

His voice hurt.

 

Simmons was surprised that this is the first thought to run through his head. Of course his voice hurt, from yelling at the top of his lungs like that. From screaming at the top of his lungs in utter devastation. After all, Grif was dead now, wasn’t he? He expected abject agony, unbridled rage at the universe, anything. But he felt numb, because Grif had been right there in his grip, and he’d fallen, and he’d fallen, and—

 

Nothing. He felt absolutely nothing. No, scratch that. A sliver of impatience as he expected Grif to do something, anything, and to just be back here at the top of the ledge with him. Because they’d survived more together than some stupid goddamn cliff, and he didn’t believe it for a single fucking second. He couldn’t believe it. He wouldn’t believe it. If Grif was dead, then it would be his fault. He couldn’t hang on. It would be all Simmons’ fault. “He’s… gone,” the maroon simulation soldier nearly whispered, testing out the phrase in his mouth. But he couldn’t be. He couldn’t. Simmons refused to accept it, refused to understand it, no, no, no, _no…_

 

Some part of him was thinking, hoping. No, Grif was alive. He had survived the fall and was waiting perfectly healthy at the bottom of the drop. Of course. Of course.

 

But what if he wasn’t?

 

It echoed in his head, echoed in his ribcage, echoed in the very marrow of his bones. He was numb because Grif had fallen. He was numb because he didn’t know if Grif had lived. He had to look. He couldn’t look. What if he looked and Grif wasn’t there? Better not to look, and to have that small, impossible hope that Grif had hung on, that Grif was alive.

 

Sarge didn’t seem to get it either. There was a kind of calmness in his voice, like he was pretending it hadn’t happened still. Simmons could hardly hear him. Sarge’s tone made it almost seem like… it was a joke. A prank, not real. Because of course Grif would fall down to his death, what with how Sarge was constantly joking about it. Like he almost knew for a fact that Grif was fine. He heard only some of the words, and he caught the tail end of “He will be missed.”

 

“I can’t believe he’s gone,” Simmons said, voice weak, sounding on the edge of tears, almost a whimper in a way. He couldn’t believe it. Wouldn’t believe it. Refused to believe it. If he believed it for even an instant, he might die, because he suddenly registered that if Grif was dead, it would mean that the last thing he ever said was “Simmons”, and he felt like he was falling apart, slowly, softly, and completely. Ah, there the pain was. Full force. Worse than every broken bone he’d ever felt in his life. He realized bitterly that this meant that half of the team was dead, all in one sequence of events, start to finish. He wondered dully if this was a sign of some kind. He wondered dully if he cared.

 

Tucker piped up, and Simmons’s vision was swimming, but he heard something about movies, hanging just below, and his mind registered, “He might be alive. He might be alive.” But he might not. He might not. What if he looks? What if he finds nothing there? Oh god, he might find nothing. But he had to, he had to, he had to, and Sarge almost seemed to understand as well. If he wasn’t there… if he wasn’t there…

 

“Maybe we should look over the edge. Just in case,” he said, urgent, frozen, the conflicting forces making his hand clutch his gun just a little tighter in his nervousness. Sarge went on a short tangent, but Simmons hardly processed it. He got the gist, and he tried again, because he had to, because he knew that he could never forgive himself if he didn’t, but Sarge was vehement. He pushed, feeling like it would be a betrayal to not look, knowing that if there was the slimmest chance…

 

But what if Grif wasn’t there? (But what if he was?)

 

The voice rang in Simmons’s ears.

 

“Oh, for GOD’S sake, just look over the damn edge, I can’t hold on for much longer!”

 

And his breath returned and his eyes stung with grateful tears and he dashed to the edge, every bone feeling like it may melt because _he was okay he was okay he was okay oh god—_

 

And there he was, hanging just below them. “Grif!” Fear, because he could still fall. Because he might still fall. Because Sarge was saying something and it wasn’t making it into his ears because Grif was alive, Grif was alive, Grif was _alive._

 

Sarge said something, but Simmons was already trying to figure out how to get him back up safely. The end result was Tucker and Sarge holding Simmons by the feet while he grabbed ahold of Grif, then pulling them back up (Sarge having a one-man debate on whether it was worth dropping the both of them if it meant getting rid of Grif, Tucker complaining that he shouldn’t have to help since he didn’t give a shit either way). Simmons cracked a half-assed attempt at an insult, telling Grif that he’s surprised he didn’t anchor the Meta, being so damn heavy. Grif was too busy doing his best to pull himself back up to reply.

 

Maybe when he was back up, maybe he held onto Grif’s hands a moment longer than he needed to once Grif was topside as well. Maybe he tugged the orange soldier a little further from the edge than he needed to. Grif took a few moments to brag about how clearly he and the knife-rifle (knifle?) were destined to be, after it saved his life. Tucker told him he was a dumbass. They started bitching at each other, but, Simmons didn’t say a word just yet.

 

Grif was alive. Grif was alive.

 

They were _alive._

 

(It didn’t seem to stay that was, but, Simmons found himself moving forward again pretty quickly, falling back into stride again without a falter. They all could go home. Perhaps once they got back to Red Base, Simmons and Grif went to sit out on the cliff like they had before all the Freelancer nonsense pulled them away again. Perhaps, when a long enough silence fell between them bickering about nothing in particular, Simmons told Grif that he had been scared. That he’d thought Grif was gone. That he was so, so, so sorry that he hadn’t hung on tighter, which Grif protested softly and said wasn’t his fault, it was never, _ever_ his fault.. Perhaps Simmons told Grif that he thought Grif had left him behind. Perhaps Grif told Simmons that he’d _never_ leave him behind, cliffs and Freelancers and gravity be damned. If Simmons allowed himself to smile widely enough to make his cheeks hurt, that was _his_ business. If they sat there for a few hours, Grif processing that he had nearly died, Simmons processing that Grif hadn’t died, then Sarge never told them off for it.)

 

(And Simmons smiled.)

**Author's Note:**

> [Hope you enjoyed, comments and kudos appreciated! Have a rad day]


End file.
